


Three years of unspoken words

by SarahfromGermany



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahfromGermany/pseuds/SarahfromGermany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes returns to a changed John Watson. John Watson surprises a changed Sherlock Holmes. Things need to be talked about but both of them are scared to get hurt again. Are they able to fix things?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been inside my head way too long so I'm trying to get it out. It's un-betaed and considering that I am not a native speaker you should expect some mistakes. I'd be happy if someone likes the story enough to be my beta - or if you just point out the major mistakes. Thank you. Well, I hope you like where this is going. Next parts will be longer.

**Chapter 1**

It had been three days. Three days for them to cool off, think everything through and try to face the other as calmly as possible. It had been three days since Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead.

_John had been sitting on a park bench early in the morning after one of his nightmares. Trying to go back to sleep would have been futile - he knew that by now - so he followed his usual routine. That is to say, the routine he had for nights that ended with him screaming Sherlock's name while seeing him falling down from the rooftop. He always got up, made a cup of tea he wouldn't drink and grab his jacket. He would wander the streets of London, giving some spare money to one or two of the homeless network Sherlock once ran and then he would sit in this park and watch how the city slowly awakened._

_"You know, I kept wondering when and where you would turn up." He said, not glancing at the dark figure that had crept up next to him and that now seemed to freeze for a brief moment._

_"Is that so." Came the gravelly voice from his right as the dark haired man seated himself on the bench next to John. He kept his distance. For now._

_"Yes. I thought it would be in a place ... less public."_

_"I didn't want you to feel crowded or cornered. Would you prefer a different setting?"_

_Their voices sounded hollow and cold but that was to be expected after three years of being dead for one of them and three years of mourning in case of the other man._

_"Yes, indeed I would. I have to go to the practice or I will be late. I have a day off in tree days. If that's fine by you." He still hadn't looked at him._

_"Of course. Where?" The other man, too, avoided any kind of eye contact but it wasn't easy. He clenched his right fist, a movement discerning his nervousness invisible to John._

_"221B Baker Street. Obviously. Come at noon."_

_"I'll be there."_

_"See you." Ironically John got up without sparing him a single glance. Leaving the other man behind - disappearing between trees and walls of buildings and three years of unspoken words._

It's been three days. Three days to wonder what had become of Doctor John Watson. Three days to think about the coldness and how he used the phrase "obviously" just like Sherlock always did. Three days to wonder if his actions had broken his only friend beyond repair.

It's been three days. Three days to pace the flat that he had returned to after those months of grieving. Three days to wonder what happened to the Sherlock Holmes that he so easily gave in to the wish to postpone their conversation. Three days to think about the man he had once thought to know and the way he would have insisted on sorting things out, explaining things, deducing things. Three days to wonder if a faked suicide could have killed the person his best friend once was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the next part. It's a bit longer to make up for the short first chapter.

**Chapter 2**

John was sitting in his chair by the fireplace when Sherlock came in. The doors had been left unlocked and after a minute of taking in the state of the flat, he took his coat off to put it on the coat rack on the back of the door. He hesitated slightly, unsure what to do now. He didn’t like the feeling.

“Have a seat. I just made some tea.” John’s voice was steady as he gestured to Sherlock’s old chair and Sherlock again noticed the coldness in his words.

He sat down, still looking around the flat. Taking in the little details. The smiley that still adorned the wall, the bullet holes reminding him of being bored and John shouting at him. The flat wasn’t as messy as it used to be, his notes had disappeared and he could see no science equipment in the kitchen behind John. But there were little things that still spoke of Sherlock’s presence: The skull on the mantelpiece, a dagger holding the mail, the golden cat waving slowly with its paw. He had gotten this for John for Christmas.

Then he looked at his former flat mate. Thin. Thinner than he had been. Tired. His cold eyes, met his gaze unwaveringly. His face held a carefully neutral expression, maybe slightly curious but Sherlock couldn’t read it well. _That’s new,_ he thought to himself. Johny expression reminded him of himself when he deduced people. 

John waited for Sherlock’s eyes to meet his after taking in the slightly altered surroundings. He knew what they would tell him. _John thinks he moved on. But there are still reminders of my presence here. He didn’t really move on. He is calm. Way too calm for sitting across a dead person. That can only mean---_

“Well. Obviously, we're here to discuss what happened. You’ve probably deduced already, that I have changed." John’s voice shook him out of his thoughts.

“Yes.” 

“We could have this conversation by simply looking each other and reading what the other one has to say. I'd prefer a real talk though. I might have read all your notes and learned quite a bit... But well clearly I'm no Sherlock Holmes.” John smirking ironically somehow makes Sherlock cringe inwardly. This is not the John he remembers. ”There might be some misunderstandings if no words are spoken at all. I’d prefer not to waste my time with those.” 

Sherlock pauses to take John in once again. Yes, there is that carefully sculpted mask and the way he sits completely still, his hand not twitching. Stressed, obviously. But there is more to it. It feels like looking into a mirror that shows your habits instead of your looks. John Watson acts as if he was Sherlock Homes. A twisting feeling manifests itself in Sherlock’s gut. This is not right at all.

“You have become cold.” He simply states, not acknowledging John’s words. If he wants to lay out some ground rules then so be it. Nothing matters as long as Sherlock can say what he’s here for.

John laughs coldly. “Yeah, well – you see, a wise person once said to me "alone is what I have, alone protects me."”

Sherlock’s eyes close and he takes a deep breath. As he opens them again, John finds himself wondering if they really look sad for a brief moment or if that’s just his imagination. Then Sherlock’s mask is in place once more. 

Inwardly Sherlock feels sick. It feels wrong to see John this detached, to hear those cruel words flung at him. He deserves them, yes, but they cause him pain nonetheless.

“I have been wrong before. I'll be wrong again. And those words were very wrong. And the answer to them was oh so right. "Friends protect people". He lets some of his feelings slip into his voice. Regret and sadness, hinting at an apology. He quickly saw, though, that his words weren’t appreciated. Anger flashed in John’s eyes before it was concealed behind that eerily stoic expression.

But maybe that was his chance. Sherlock quickly dove into his mind palace remembering little details about how his best friend once used to behave. He might be different now, so his reactions couldn’t be anticipated that easily but the essence of his character – the things that made John _John_ – that probably was still the same. It just had to be. Sherlock pushed the disturbing thought, that _his John_ might be gone, far from his mind. He couldn’t let himself focus on that. Instead, he had to make the man sitting opposite him angry. It might be the only way to get him out of his shell. And after all those years he still knows exactly which button to push to make him really angry. 

The only thing that shouldn't happen was John leaving the flat to "get some air" like he did before… _things_ happened. Leaving was not an option. Sherlock had to be careful with pushing those buttons. But he could do it - he had destroyed Moriarty and his web of criminals so making John angry should be easy, shouldn’t it? But somehow, in Sherlock’s mind, trying to get John back, the emotional John, the John that once was – somehow that seemed much more difficult and dangerous.

“I guess you have questions. Ask.” Sherlock leaned back a little, steepling his fingers under his chin.

John let his gaze wander towards this all-too-familiar gesture. It was weird to see it again after three years. Startled he realised that he had missed it.

“Why should I?” John asked, to distract himself from thoughts too emotional for this kind of talk. He couldn’t let his emotions try to rule his mind, he needed to focus. Without focus there was no chance of handling this conversation like he had planned to.

“Why wouldn't you? That's why we're here. To discuss what happened. Don't tell me you've become that cold that you don't even care anymore. You being here tells me otherwise. You still care. You have questions. You need answers. So ask.” 

Another realisation: Sherlock’s voice still sounded like velvet and the words he formed were as sharp as he remembered. He was still _Sherlock_. There was no possibility of fooling him like he did fool Greg or Mrs. Hudson into thinking that he was fine, that he had moved on.   
John saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow the tiniest bit and knew that he needed to get a grip on his emotions if he wanted to come out of this relatively intact. If his thoughts and feelings appeared too clearly in his body language, Sherlock would figuratively dissect him. Being deduced by Sherlock Holmes could hurt badly on normal occasions but this wasn’t normal. This felt more like the war he had seen in Afghanistan than almost anything else he had experienced since. 

“You must have questions, too. Why don’t you start?” 

Clearly, John wanted to buy some time but he wouldn’t let him do that. No, he had to increase the pressure. And he needed to increase it slowly until he reached the breaking point of his friend. He had no idea what to do after that but he would simply have to make up his plan as he went along. That had worked well in most situations so far.

“Because you have been waiting for three years and I think it’s time for you to get some answers before you punch me and make talking a lot more difficult.”

“I won’t punch you.”

“Yes you will. You have every right to, you know.”

“So now I have rights, do I?” Johns voice was heavy with sarcasm and again the anger appeared in his eyes but this time it wasn’t concealed again. _Good_ , Sherlock thought.

“Of course.” Sherlock knew exactly the effect these two words would have on the army doctor. If spoken correctly – calmly, almost dismissively – he would get fed up with Sherlock’s arrogance. The new John might react a little bit different than the old John but it was worth a try.

“Let me get this straight. I put up with your stupid antics every day, the shooting at walls, severed heads in the fridge and everything and I have to _watch you commit suicide_ to have the _right_ to answer the first question?” John couldn’t help it, his voice rose and the anger in his face was probably visible to a blind person. 

Sherlock nearly smirked. It was still easy to play the strings of John’s emotions – but he had to be careful. He didn’t want them to snap completely. But he needed to push a little bit further. He stood up and started to pace the room just like he used to during conversations with his flat mate. 

“I really hope that wasn’t your first question.” He let his voice take the tone that once was reserved for Anderson to tip John over the edge.

Sherlock didn’t see it coming, though. John looked calmly at him, closed his eyes for some brief seconds and took a deep breath. Then he shook his head. Sherlock almost thought that there would be no reaction and looked around, at the familiar floor boards, the book shelves, waiting for John’s comeback and wondering what would get him an emotional reaction.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash before his cheek seemed to explode in bursts of pain and his head was whipped to the side. His body didn’t anticipate the momentum and he toppled over, barely catching himself with one arm. His reflexes had really been better in the last months and years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues where the previous ended: John just punched Sherlock.

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock braced himself on the floor for another possible and well deserved attack; he raised his left arm blindly to shield his head but all he felt was a light hand on his forearm.

“Come on. Get up. Bloody idiot.” John’s eyes still flashed in anger but there was another emotion behind them. Sherlock couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

Tentatively he took the outstretched hand and let himself be pulled onto his feet by the other man. He grimaced at the pain shooting through his head and limbs. There still were some injuries from his _travels_ that needed to heal some more. Well, if John decided to punch him again, the healing part would have to wait.

John fixed Sherlock with a furious gaze, mad at himself to have lost his cool and mad at the genius to still know which of his buttons to push. In the instant that his fist connected with Sherlock’s face he had known that this was what Sherlock wanted to achieve. He wanted him to get mad, to react in an emotional way. Because as long as Sherlock stayed the only one being calm the genius could play the angry participants like his violin. Emotions made them careless, made them vulnerable to his schemes and the way his mind would take them apart. And that terrified John. He had been hurt badly by the dark haired man once. He didn’t need that particular experience a second time. 

John pointed at the chair. “Sit.” Then he turned around to get an ice pack while collecting his thoughts. He decided that he himself had been too passive during this meeting and reacting to Sherlock’s tactic wouldn’t let him get out unscathed. It was time to take control of the situation.

He got back from the kitchen, gave Sherlock the ice pack and sat down, watching him press it gingerly against his cheek.

“I told you, you would punch me.” Sherlock’s voice sounded slightly strained, probably from the pain. John tried his best not to care. “Should I comment on how you avoided my nose and teeth again, for old times’ sake?” 

John glowered at the slightly contorted smirk and answered coldly “If you want to risk it. I prefer to talk, though. If you could keep yourself from being a smart ass for a little while.”

Sherlock looked closely at John’s expression and then nodded. He could clearly see the crack in the other man’s armour and for now that had to be enough. He couldn’t risk to be thrown out the flat. 

“Good. So, you wanted questions, didn’t you? Well then. Let’s start with the most obvious. Why did you do it?”

“That’s not the most obvious question.”

“It’s not? And what, pray tell, is?” John barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Clearly the most obvious question for you would be: How did you do it. Whereas for me it would be: How did you figure it out.” 

“Oh, now you do want to ask questions.” John stated sarcastically.

“I never said I didn’t want to, I only said you should go first but honestly? You are doing a shitty job as an interrogator.” 

“Well if you are so much better, Mr. Holmes, then do us both a favour and enlighten me. I wouldn’t want to bore you to death with my idiocy.” If Sherlock was in any way affected by John’s cold and cutting words he didn’t show. Little did John know how the way he used his surname felt like a knife twisting deep in his guts.

“Yes, I agree that would be best.” Sherlock, too, could play the game of hurting the other man with his words to deflect the attention from the emotions that ran below the surface. 

“Well, where to start?” The taller man put the ice pack away, ignored the angry throbbing in his head, briskly stood up and started pacing again. This would be easier for him – and probably for John, too – if he didn’t make eye contact.

“Moriarty had already destroyed my reputation. The only thing left he needed to accomplish was make me commit suicide. That would have been the perfect ending to his story because I would have been the fraud that died in disgrace. It would be the final proof to everyone that Moriarty didn’t exist and had been made up by a not-so-clever private detective. But how make me take my own life? He told us at our little get-together at the swimming pool. “Burn the heart out of me”, as he put it. So the threatened the three people that mattered to me most. Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade and you. Three snipers, three bullets and the only person to call them back was Moriarty. After I committed suicide, of course. To keep the story short: Moriarty shot himself so there was no way to avoid my fall. It was either my friends dying or me.” Sherlock looked out of the window at the street below. He remembered the times that he had stood here, playing the violin and he remembered the days during the last three years that he had spent dreaming about playing the violin here at the window. Dreaming about home. His voice shook a little, despite his efforts to steady it, as he continued: “I… had prepared a way to fake my suicide and to disappear while taking apart the criminal web Moriarty had built. That was the only way for me to return home. It wasn’t easy. Being away, knowing any mistake would put all of you in grave danger.”

Silence. John didn’t know what to say because he had suspected some part of Sherlock’s story but there were still too many questions unanswered and he didn’t know which one to ask first. He didn’t know if he should say something at all because of the crack in Sherlock’s voice. The last time he had heard that… He couldn’t think about it. But hearing his former best friend sound vulnerable like that, John felt that he deserved at least something in return. Despite knowing better, he decided that Sherlock deserved an answer to the question he had mentioned to have himself.

After some minutes of silence, in which only their breathing could be heard, John spoke, keeping his voice low and staring at the now cold cup of tea in his hands.

“I left Baker Street for some months. I lived with Harry for a while and even tried therapy again. It didn’t work. I kept seeing you jump anytime I closed my eyes. I kept seeing you in the streets out of the corner of my eye anytime I went out, which wasn’t often. Then one day Harry made me watch a movie with her. “The Prestige”. You probably don’t know it but it’s about two magicians trying to be better than the other. And that was when I realized it. “It’s a trick, it’s just a magic trick” you said when…” Now his voice cracked a bit. But he pushed on, trying to ignore the stinging feeling behind his eyes. “So I did some research. At first, I guess you could say that it was just a desperate idea. But then it somehow started to make sense. The call, saying Mrs. Hudson was hurt. You refusing to care. The biker that pushed me to the ground after… And the paramedics not letting me through. It was all part of the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” John nodded and Sherlock turned around, a little surprised at the easy acceptance to such a simple answer. Because it really didn’t explain anything, did it?

But John had learned a lot during the last three years and he could see clearly how worn out the younger man was. He could see the scars he bore and that there wasn’t much energy left in him. 

“Okay?” Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together and tried to gauge the mood his former flatmate was in. 

“It’s not okay in general. But, for now, I guess it’s enough as an explanation. I punched you. I got some answers. I guess there’ll be some yelling, too. And me having to get out to cool down. But…” John didn’t know how to explain his mood swinging from cold in one moment to throwing punches to accepting the other man back in his life. Did he accept him? He probably would, but right now everything became a bit too much.

“But..?” Sherlock prompted, unsure how that sentence would end. If he even wanted to know how it would end.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s a bit much, seeing you here where you used to be. Talking to a dead man and all that stuff.” John wasn’t sure what he wanted to say and he still couldn’t make himself look at Sherlock for too long. He couldn’t even bring himself to call Sherlock by his name, for God’s sake. The presence of the other man jumbled his emotions more than he had anticipated and he didn’t like that one bit. It was easier to act like the John he had once been and shut off his emotions for most of the time. But now that the dark figure was back in his living room, John felt himself slipping backwards in time to the point when he had been looking up the tall building of a hospital. It was disconcerting and the pain in his chest – dull and constantly aching but bearable during the last year – returned more and more, ripping at his heart, making him want to cry and shout and do everything he had done during those first weeks.

“But you knew I wasn’t dead.” Sherlock stated, clearly confused. “You had time to adapt to that thought and me being here should make no difference at all.”

John sighed. Trust that genius to return from the dead and still be as daft as ever. “It doesn’t matter that I figured it out. I got that idea of you not being dead about six months after you… And after another six months I had enough bits and pieces of information to figure out that I wasn’t completely bonkers and that there was indeed a possibility of you faking your own suicide. It took another year or so to be as sure as I could be. And you know what that makes?” John couldn’t help himself and became angry again. He glared at Sherlock’s shoulder as he spoke, instead of his eyes. “You know what that makes? That makes six months of mourning my best friend. Another six months of mourning and believing I completely lost it. And then another two years of wondering why said friend” He nearly spat the word. “why that man didn’t let me help him. Why he kept me in the dark. Why he wouldn’t return. And you know what? I can now easily say that it is far worse wondering if someone you cared about died without you knowing than watching said someone jump to his apparent death. So thank you for that wonderful insight.”

John abruptly put the cup away, spilling some of the tea onto the coffee table next to his chair and got up to grab his jacket when the silky voice from the window stopped him mid-motion.

“I’m sorry, John.” 

John let his arm fall to his side and turned around – this time he met Sherlock’s gaze.

“I’m sorry that you had to watch me die. I’m sorry that you believing my death was the only way to ensure you would stay alive. I’m sorry that it took me so long to come home. I’m sorry that any kind of message about me still being alive would have meant great danger for your life.” Sherlock looked away at the space his music stand had once occupied. Oh, how he missed his violin and soothing his mind by playing. 

“It’s in your room.” John’s voice sounded strained and Sherlock didn’t need to look up to see the emotions in his expression. He could hear them as clearly as he felt them himself. Anger. Regret. Sorrow. 

In the back of his mind Sherlock registered the way John had read his thoughts just from the way he had held himself. Had the other man always been that perceptive? He was slightly confused.

“You kept it?” He was thankful for John changing the topic and looked up once he was sure that his face looked calm enough.

“Follow me.” John turned around briskly, knowing the younger man would be curious enough to follow him in the direction of “the other bedroom”, as John used to call it now. As he pushed the door open he heard a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock. John quickly stepped aside and watched the other man enter his old room.

The room had changed a bit but was still dominated by the bed, now covered by clean blankets to keep the dust away. There were more book shelves with all of Sherlock’s note books and his encyclopaedias, others contained most of his science equipment that didn’t fit on the desk at the corner next to the window. It was everything that had been missing in the other two rooms from what Sherlock could see. 

The case of his violin sat on a chair, the music stand next to it. The sheets of music looked as if they were still in the order they had been three years ago.

“You kept it.” This time it was a statement.

“I thought you hated stating the obvious.” John replied and Sherlock flinched a little, hearing the coldness behind the words where there once would have been a friendly smile.

“Maybe I changed.” Sherlock kept his own reply carefully neutral and added: “Maybe we all have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it took so long to update but I always need to have two chapters ready before I post one of them - just in case life's getting busy. I hope you like it. Feel free to comment. And again: I am no native speaker and I have no beta. If you see mistakes, please tell me. Thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

They had been standing in Sherlock’s old room for a long while, Sherlock taking in the carefulness with which his possessions had been kept and John taking in Sherlock. 

John remembered how impressed he had been by the detective’s deductions and how reading his notes had been an anchor in his grief. It had started one afternoon with an invitation for a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson. 

_He hadn’t seen her since their trip to Sherlock’s grave and he had known the old woman was lonely without anybody living upstairs in 221B. The part of his conscience connected to being a doctor and to caring for people in need had been nagging him for some time – mostly when John stared at the ceiling over his guest bed at his sister’s, waiting to be too tired for nightmares. His treacherous mind then used to torment with thoughts of people who mourned the loss of the clever detective, too. Molly Hooper, which he had not seen since the funeral. Greg Lestrade, devastated and thinking it was his fault. Mrs. Hudson, the person that came closest to a mother figure for Sherlock and John. Her cries at the funeral had haunted his sleep almost as much as the falling body of his best friend. The thought “No mother should have to bury her child” kept repeating itself in his head and the only thing that could shut it out was the intent to visit her in Baker Street._

_“It’s so good to see you, dear!” She had smiled at him, hugged him and before he knew he was sitting in the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hands and scones on his plate._

_There had been a lot of silence between the obligatory small talk (“How is work?” – “Good. How is the hip?”) but then Mrs. Hudson had looked at him – really looked at him – and said: “I won’t let anybody move in there. You can come home any time you want.”_

_John had looked up, startled and tried to convince her that the rent would be too much for his meagre income and that he would understand if she wanted someone else but Mrs. Hudson had looked at him sternly and had replied matter-of-factly: “I will not tolerate anybody else up there but you. I don’t care about the money. You have avoided the memories long enough, John. Move back here and get a grip on your life. Don’t waste it. He wouldn’t have wanted that.”_

_“No one knows what he would have wanted.” His voice had held a bitter edge and had been louder than he had wanted it to be. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”_

_“No, it’s okay, dear. It’s normal. But I have to disagree. I know that he wouldn’t have wanted you to waste away. And if you want proof for that, look at the boxes under his bed. All labelled with a “Dr. John Watson” and full of note books and things he collected. I cleaned up the flat a bit after… After. And I found them. It looks as if he tried to organise the mess in the living room. It’s still messy enough but well, he’s… was… Sherlock, right? Can’t expect too much in that case.” She then took John’s hand that had been clenched into a fist on top of the kitchen table. “Look at it, John. It’s for you. Maybe it helps. Maybe it won’t. But you need to try.”_

_And then the older woman across from him had said something that had convinced John to at least try: “Please.”_

_Two days later he found himself in the living room, surrounded by boxes with his few possessions and memories he sometimes wished to forget because that would make his life a lot easier. And less hurtful._

_John had put his things away and then stood outside the door to Sherlock’s room for quite some time. He didn’t know what gave him the courage to finally push open the door but he still remembered the instant regret to have done so. The reason for this was the scent that came from the inside. Mrs. Hudson had cleaned the flat but must have left this room nearly untouched because all that John’s nose registered was: Sherlock. There was no trace of some kind of cleaning agent in the air, and even if Mrs. Hudson had opened the window from time to time, the unique scent of the detective nearly overwhelmed John._

_He remembered to have had tears running down his cheeks while he looked at the dressing gown that was flung over a chair like it had been worn just mere hours ago. He remembered sobbing quietly as he had realised that he had never before noticed Sherlock’s scent. And he remembered that his tears hat stopped slowly while he was sitting uncomfortably on the floor looking at the boxes under his flatmate’s bed. And he had sat there for a long time, flipping through pages filled with Sherlock’s handwriting, reading about known and unknown cases and getting an insight into the mind and method of Sherlock Holmes._

_After John had watched “The Prestige” with Harry and had had the sudden inspiration that his clever friend might still be alive, these note books and the mess in the living room – which he couldn’t bring himself to clean up for a very long time after moving in again – became his obsession. Every nightmare-stricken night – which was nearly every night – saw the same routine: He would get up, wash away the tears and sweat in the shower and then he sat in the living room, washing away the grisly pictures and haunting memories with facts about body language, inherited traits and tiny facts only Sherlock Holmes could and would notice._

_The immersion in the field of deduction at first helped him grieve because reading his notes was sometimes weirdly similar to listening to his friend. Sherlock’s notes were framed by insults directed at the people he worked with and remarks concerning their stupidity – just like Sherlock had been at a crime scene. And after the first comforting effects the impact of Sherlock’s legacy became even stronger: John managed to sleep for some hours each night, mostly without nightmares and began to look more rested and stable to the rest of the world. He was able to pretend that everything – given some time – would be all right. That was very useful, considering that the fixed idea, that his best friend might still be very much alive, would have easily raised fears of his mental well-being._

_He had once again arranged his life around his flatmate – but this time John had to adjust to someone who was officially dead and might unofficially still be alive. How do you make a life out of grief and anger and the suspicion that someone – someone who had committed suicide in a very public way – was still alive?_

Now the man he had once – and only in his own mind – called his best friend stood in the very room he had spent so much time in. It was bizarre and even after the process of first suspecting, then tentatively believing and after a long time finally knowing that he faked his suicide – even after all this time, John still felt as if he might wake up at any given moment only to feel the crushing pain that accompanies grief.

Sherlock kept looking at his possessions, walking up and down the room, touching a book here and a – cleaned – petri dish there. Strange emotions welled up inside Sherlock and he had to refrain from rolling his eyes at them. Sentiment was something he normally pushed very far from himself but it became more and more difficult to do so. That had started three years ago with a phone call he would never be able to delete from his mind. Not that he wanted to. Even if hearing John’s voice – its tone telling him that the older man was clearly in denial – hurt him every time he came near that particular place in his mind palace, it was what kept him alive in the last years. And how could he want to delete the only thing that kept reminding him of the importance of the task? How could he, if that phone call kept reminding him that there was something in this world worth fighting for?

He simply couldn’t. So he kept the memory, visited it during the darkest hours, reliving the pain and regret time and time again to remember all of the happiness and wonder and comfort he came to associate with the man the phone call had connected to. John. And it looked as if John had kept everything Sherlock owned in a similar fashion. 

“You slept here.” He stated and it was obvious that he startled John from whatever memories he had visited.

John just looked at Sherlock and his gaze became some degrees colder. Internally, he braced himself for what was about to happen.

“You slept here.” Sherlock repeated himself. “You put the blankets over the bed just this morning. Not only did you organize everything but you keep it clean. You tried to erase your presence from this room by removing everything connected to you. So you anticipated that I would sooner or later stand in this very spot. But you forgot some things. Tiny mistakes, really – you were very thorough – but I never owned the green fountain pen that has rolled from the night table onto the floor and is half hidden by the blankets. And there’s a crumpled page next to the shelves – you must have missed it when you emptied the bin. Now, why would you want to remove all evidence of your presence in this room? Let me see-“

“No.” 

“… Excuse me?” 

“I said: No.” John answered calmly and met Sherlock’s curious – clearly deducing – gaze.

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, come on. Give me at least some credit and don’t try to make me believe you’re puzzled by me interrupting you with a simple word.” John scoffed and the expression on Sherlock’s face instantly changed to something else. Something more dangerous. Well, John knew how to deal with dangerous, so that wasn’t going to impress him either.

When Sherlock didn’t speak again – clearly he waited for John to say something so he could deduce some more – John sighed. “Should I have a go then?” The only reaction he got was a slight twitch in Sherlock’s clenched jaw. “Okay then. You say, you’re here to talk, to let me get some answers. You say, you want me to understand and you’re sorry and all that bullshit. No – it’s my turn now!” He held up a hand when the younger man clearly was about to interrupt. Sherlock looked a bit surprised at that but nodded curtly, allowing John to continue.

“Since the moment you stepped through these doors, and probably even before that, your motive wasn’t me getting answers though. You were trying to assess how much had changed. The flat, your room, me. Your gaze flickers constantly over the furniture and over myself. I might not be an even match but I am a different man now. You saw that instantly. You saw yourself in me. You don’t like change. You don’t like me resembling you. It unsettles you. As a result, you’re trying to make me return to my past self. You’re trying to make me angry and to get some kind of emotional outburst from me. You succeeded, I punched you. That was all the evidence I needed to prove that you are not here to answer my questions. I have no idea what you want, but deducing my life – my new life – from some blankets, a pen and a bit of rubbish won’t do you any good.”

John’s gaze turned even colder and Sherlock had to suppress a shiver. “This is a warning. Do not play games with me. Do not even try. I might not see it coming at first. I’m not that good. But I will notice. And you will have to face the consequences. Is that understood?”

Sherlock was frozen in place. Never – not in his worst nightmares, and there had been quite a few – would he have imagined John Watson to be that cold and calculating. What had he done to his best friend? He cringed inwardly and the pain in his gut had nothing to do with healing battle wounds. But he nodded. He was no idiot – John had changed. The old John, the John that hadn’t been that broken, might have punched him or shouted at him or done something similar upon realising that Sherlock had tricked him. But this John? This John looked a bit like the doctor he once knew. But Sherlock had the terrible feeling, that this John was a completely different person. So the only question relevant in all this messy business was: Where had the old John gone, and how could he get him back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it. I'd be delighted if you decided to add a comment or two ;-) Apologies for taking so long to update this story. I'm planning to move to another city at the moment and still need to work a lot on my thesis. This chapter hopefully makes up for the long wait and I hope to add the next chapter soon. I won't abandon this story, don't you worry ;-)


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